Just Don't Forget
by CrystalAlchemist
Summary: When Sam is attacked by a ghost on a hunt, an infection begins that slowly leaches away his memories. The brothers must work against a ticking clock to destroy the ghost before Sam completely forgets his past. Takes place during season 3. Rated for swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This idea has probably been done before, but it wouldn't let me go so I knew I had to write it. This will be pretty short, not much more than 5 chapters, and I already have a lot of it written, but I would really really appreciate any feedback you can give me, so please review if you have time. **

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Dean Winchester really wasn't feeling up for a hunt.

He'd spent the first part of last night drinking, and the second half in bed with a girl—this evening of fun had resulted in, obviously, very little sleep, and a massive hangover to boot. It had been worth it, but Dean would really prefer to be in bed, sleeping, when instead he was sitting in the passenger seat of the impala, racing towards Tennessee with his brother.

His brother, who, while Dean had been off having fun, had spent his evening scouring the web for a job. He'd found one, all right—several states over, which was, unfortunately, the closest case he'd been able to locate.

Why they'd had to leave right away, Dean didn't know. He understood Sam was restless, since they hadn't had anything for nearly a week now—hence the night at the bar—but he didn't understand why it couldn't have waited a few hours so he could catch a few hours of sleep in a _bed_, for god's sake.

He rested his head back on the seat, grateful that Sam preferred to drive without music, because he had a pounding headache that every sound and movement seemed to escalate.

Sam glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye, looking concerned, but didn't comment on Dean's appearance, which he knew must look terrible. Instead he said, "We're just a couple hours away. We'll check into a motel once we get there."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes closed, silently grateful that Sam had acknowledged Dean's state without being touchy-feely about it as he knew Sam could be.

They reached Nashville within the next two hours, just as Sam had said, and crashed at the nearest motel. Dean sprawled out on one of the mattresses with a sigh of relief, throwing one arm across his eyes.

"Need some aspirin?" Sam asked, setting their things on his own bed.

"I'm fine." Dean sat up, kneading his forehead and trying to become more alert. They had work to do, and he couldn't be dragging Sam down. "Tell me about the case."

"I already did, remember?"

"Come on, dude, you know I wasn't listening."

Sam chuckled. He sat down at the table, opening his computer, and went through the files he'd gathered on the case. "So, woman kills her husband after twenty years of being married to him—she cut his head off with a machete."

Dean raised his eyebrows.

"And then, immediately after, she went back to normal, completely sane.".

"Couldn't that just be a psychotic breakdown?" said Dean.

"Could be, but I think it's more than that. This woman had no history of irrational behavior…I thought maybe it was a vengeful spirit taking control of her."

"Guesswork?" Dean said in disbelief, after a pause. "You dragged me several hundred miles out on a case that might not even be a case? Seriously, Sam?"

"Hey—you have to admit the way she killed him was weird—almost screams possession. Besides, I was dying to get out of that damn motel room, and this was the best I could find. It's not my fault you decided to go and get a hangover the night before."

Dean groaned and flopped back on the bed, shutting his eyes. "So, what, you wanna go interview the chick who murdered her husband?"

"Thought we could start there, yeah. Try and find out if we really have a case here."

"Right." Dean swung his legs over to the side of the bed. "Let's get going, then."

"Whoa, whoa." Sam rose and approached his brother. "You don't have to come with, Dean. I can take this. Just stay here, get some rest. I just dragged you all the way over here, you deserve a few hours—"

"I'm _fine_, Sam," Dean said, cutting him off, exasperated. He stood up and pushed his brother aside, grabbing his jacket off the other bed. He ignored the pounding in his head as he said, "Come on, hurry up, we've got murderers to question."

Sam was eager to get back on the hunt.

He felt like it had been ages—_ages_—since he and Dean had found work, and sitting around and waiting had never been something either of them particularly enjoyed. Moving on, moving ahead to the next job, the next distraction, the next possibility of giving life meaning—that was what they both needed, and as flimsy as the case Sam had found was, it was a chance to save someone. A chance to make a difference.

Today, however, was not the best day for that, given Dean's massive hangover. Usually, Sam would let Dean sleep it off, but he was desperate to get out, and he knew if he pressed his brother to stay put Dean would only get pissed off and be more determined to come with.

So here they were, sitting in a psychiatric ward before the woman who had supposedly killed her husband. She looked normal, Sam thought—tired, maybe, shadows underneath her eyes, and a bit pale, but her gaze was steady and her expression was calm as she described the incident.

"It started a few months ago," she said, the look in her eyes distant. "I would start to get these…spurts of anger, of rage, every so often. I would have no idea where they'd come from, and I would try to control them, but…" she shook her head. "I couldn't. They became closer together, and soon I couldn't…" The calm exterior wavered slightly as she swallowed and took a deep breath. "I love my husband. I love my children. I would never do anything to hurt them. But it was like this…anger…was infecting me." She met Sam's eyes hesitantly. "And then, the moment I…well…the second it was over it was like all the anger disappeared, as if it had never been there."

"So you…came to your senses?" Sam said.

She shrugged. "I suppose. I was so confused. I don't understand what happened."

"Well, we're doing everything we can to figure it out," Sam said. "Anything else you can remember would be helpful."

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eyes, seeing that Sam had turned on the full power of his empathetic look, which he used to get as much info out of people as possible. Somehow it always seemed to work. Dean wished he had his little brother's puppy-dog eyes…maybe then he wouldn't fall prey to them so often.

He was shaken our of his thoughts as Sam got to his feet, thanking the woman for her help, and joined his brother in standing up and making for the door. They'd already reached it and were halfway to the Impala before Dean realized that Sam was still speaking.

"…probably check out the scene of the murder next, look for sulfur or other signs of possession—Dean? Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" Dean looked up at Sam, blinking. "Right, yeah…murder scene. Let's go. Where is it again?"

Sam eyed Dean doubtfully. "Look, man, why don't you just go back to the motel, I got this. I'll come by later and tell you what I found out."

Normally Dean would have argued, but—despite the massive amounts of painkillers he'd taken earlier—he had a raging headache that was only growing in intensity. So he agreed with only a small bit of reluctance, looking forward to a long nap and maybe something to eat…after he was sure he wasn't going to throw it up immediately after.

Sam returned to the motel room an hour later extremely confused. He'd expected to see some sort of indication of the supernatural at the woman's house—sulfur to indicate demonic possession, something to indicate witchcraft, anything…but he'd come up with zilch.

He entered the room to find his brother passed out on the bed furthest from the door and smiled to himself, in no hurry to wake Dean up and tell him of his nonexistent findings. After all, Dean could use a break, some time where he didn't have to think about the continuous cases, not to mention the ticking clock he was under…

Sam's smile faded quickly and he shook himself out of his dark thoughts, focusing instead on how peaceful his brother looked at the moment. Lines of anxiety and age and stress disappeared from Dean's face in sleep—for once he actually looked his age, and the reminder of the effect the burdens placed on Dean had had created a painful pang in Sam's chest.

_Stay in the moment,_ he thought as he settled on his bed with his laptop. It was something that he frequently had to remind himself of. This wouldn't be their last year together—he would figure out a way to save Dean. He exhaled and set his mind to figuring out what the hell was going on with these murders.

Meanwhile, unknown to Sam and Dean, a man named Michael Jones was stepping inside his house late that same night, failing to fight the thoughts of hatred that were rapidly consuming him. Michael was pulled by a force that he couldn't seem to control to his kitchen, dropping his bag on the floor and approaching the counter, fingers trembling as he reached for the knife resting on top of it.

"Mike?"

The man turned to face his wife, who stood in the doorway, clutching at a robe tied at her waist, hair loose and messy, a look of concern on her face.

"Vanessa," Michael said hoarsely, his fingers itching towards the knife. He forced them to still.

"Did you just get home?" Vanessa said, taking a step closer.

"Stay there," Michael panted, arms shaking with the effort to keep them still now. "I…I don't want to hurt you."

Vanessa paused, but frowned, looking further worried. "Michael, what's going on? What's wrong?"

"I…I can't fight it."

He struggled against it, but he couldn't control this unprecedented urge to pick up the knife, to raise it to his stomach—Vanessa's eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth—

The moment the knife plunged into Michael's abdomen the man cried out, gasping out, "Vanessa…help me…" before plunging forward and collapsing, unconscious, on the kitchen floor.

"Dean. Dean, hey, wake up, man."

Dean groaned and sat up, eyes resting on Sam, who was already dressed and was shaking Dean's arm. He blinked slowly, trying to remember the past 48 hours. "Sam? Damn it…what time is it?"

"Eight a.m. Man, you slept the whole afternoon and all night."

No wonder he felt like shit. Dean recalled the hangover, the case, and then going back to the hotel and collapsing onto his bed, where he'd stayed all night. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and scrubbed the hand over his face, grateful that the headache seemed to have disappeared.

"You shoulda woken me up," he muttered, hands still hiding his face.

"Nah," Sam said. Dean looked up at his brother as he went through papers on the table by his computer. Sam glanced up and smiled briefly. "There was nothing to see at the murder site. I was starting to think there wasn't really anything going on here but I did a little research. There were murders here a few years ago, too, that happened in similar ways—people who for years were completely calm and sane either killed loved ones or killed themselves. And speaking of killing themselves…" He grinned. "There was an attempted suicide a few blocks away last night, one Michael Jones. He stabbed himself in the gut, then the second after he did it he screamed for help, his wife called 9-1-1 and he survived."

Dean frowned, trying to catch up. "So…he chickened out?"

"But if he'd chickened out, don't you think he would have done it _before_ he stabbed himself? It was almost like someone made him do it."

"Yeah. Okay, you're right." Dean stood and ran his fingers through his hair. "I guess I'll get dressed, then we can go."

The two arrived at the hospital in the impala twenty minutes later and entered the victim's room—Michael Jones was a tall, stocky man with a thin graying beard—to see that he was still resting on his bed, asleep.

The brothers paused and exchanged glances, unsure whether to wait or what—and then a woman came into the room, hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. She stopped short at the sight of Sam and Dean, who hastily pulled out their fake FBI badges. "We're here to talk to Michael Jones," Dean said.

Vanessa swallowed and explained who she was. Sam and Dean exchanged glances again. "So you were…with him, when he…?" Sam said. Vanessa nodded. "Could we…ask you a couple of questions?"

Vanessa Jones relayed to the two of them what she recalled from her husband's attempted suicide, and her subsequent call to the ambulance. After her account of it—the way the insanity had seemed to vanish the moment he'd attempted to kill himself, the way he hadn't seemed able to control himself—convinced Sam and Dean further that they were dealing with something supernatural.

"We should check out the place where he tried to kill himself," said Sam as they exited the hospital. "Maybe I missed something last time. I mean, this has got to be ghost possession or something."

"Only it doesn't really make sense," said Dean, scratching the back of his neck as they came up to the impala. "This guy—he couldn't control himself, but he was conscious. The entire time, he knew what he was doing and he couldn't stop it. Ghost possession—and demon possession, for that matter—isn't like that."

"Maybe we should call Bobby, see what he has to say about it."

"Nah, not yet." Dean opened the driver's side door. "Let's go check out the scene first."

They managed to sneak into the house without mishap—the real trouble began halfway through their search for clues.

Sam stepped into the kitchen and saw the knife, still resting on the floor where it had landed, a small pool of blood next to it. Sam approached it slowly and crouched next to it, looking for signs of a cursed object or maybe a sigil—

He froze as he exhaled and his breath fogged the air.

He straightened up just in time to find himself facing a pair of bright green, sunken eyes set into a bony face surrounded by wild black hair. Sam took a step back, completely unprepared and unarmed, and felt himself flying backwards, back slamming into the wall behind him.

He heard his brother call his name from a distance, but before he could respond, the ghost had flickered and reappeared right in front of him, reaching out a hand and pressing it to Sam's head.

From the point on Sam's forehead where the ghost's hand touched him came a searing heat, a pain that scorched it's way through his head and then down his body, building and blocking out all other thought. He heard someone screaming and realized that it was him—the pain was growing and becoming unendurable—he was sure that he couldn't bear any more—

And then finally, Sam blacked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is a lot shorter than the last one, but I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for the response on the first chapter! Once again, reviews would be infinitely wonderful. **

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"Sam? Dammit, Sam, open your eyes. Sammy, come on! Sam!"

Sam first registered the absence of pain, and upon cracking his eyes open he found he was sitting on the floor of a kitchen, his back to a wall. Hands were gripping the front of his jacket, shaking him gently, and as Sam forced his eyes the rest of the way open he found himself staring into the worried face of his older brother.

His expression relaxed slightly when he saw Sam was awake, though his grip on his brother's jacket tightened. "Hey. Come back to me, man. We've gotta get out of here."

"Dean?" Sam croaked as Dean gripped his arm, helping him to his feet. "What happened?"

"I have no idea," Dean replied as they made their way to the door and towards the car. "I heard you scream and came to see the ghost just as she disappeared. She attacked you, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, still disoriented. He was trying not to lean on his brother, but he was finding it difficult to walk properly. "But…I have no idea what she did."

"Maybe she was trying to kill you but didn't get the chance because I walked in on her," he said. "Good thing I'm quick, huh? Come on, get in the car, we need to figure out who this chick is."

Sam felt strange the entire ride back to the motel. His head was swimming and he was having a difficult time thinking straight—not to mention the pain in his head had returned in a fierce, pounding headache. He could see Dean watching him closely from the driver's side of the car, however, and tried not to show his discomfort, resting his head back on the seat and closing his eyes to block out the building pain.

"You doing okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said automatically, opening his eyes again. Sam didn't want his brother worrying about him right now—not with all the stress Dean was already under. Besides, he was fine. He just felt a little…odd.

Besides, if there was one thing he had practice in, it was working through pain and pretending it didn't exist. He'd learned that from Dean.

Sam felt a bit better when they got back, so he opened up his laptop to do some research. He looked into the accounts of past murders in the town, and found several mentions of a girl with wild hair, but there was no name.

"Anything?" Dean asked from the bed.

"Not really," Sam said. "I mean, there were murders here a few years ago, too, that happened in similar ways—people who for years were completely calm and sane either killed loved ones or killed themselves."

Dean didn't answer, and after a moment Sam looked up at his brother, only to see him standing still by the bed, regarding Sam with a strange look on his face. "Uh, Sam? You already told me that, remember? This morning."

"Huh?" His eyebrows pulled together. "Did I? Well, anyway, a few of these victims would see a girl with wild hair."

"So…maybe this girl is linked to one of the victims."

"Yeah, could be."

"Have you found any connection between the victims yet?"

"No, not yet. It doesn't seem like they knew each other at all."

Dean sighed and ran frustrated fingers through his hair. This damn case was getting nowhere. "Well, I'm out of ideas. Let's take a break—get something to eat. I saw a place close by that looked pretty good."

Though he wasn't particularly hungry, Sam was feeling equally frustrated, and welcomed the chance to get out of the motel. Besides, his head was still swimming, and maybe food would help. He closed his computer and headed to the bathroom to down a couple of aspirin.

The moment he stood up, however, a wave of dizziness took him over, proceeded immediately by a whirl of blinding pain. He stumbled, one hand flying to his head, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Sam?" Dean moved swiftly to his brother's side, gripping his arm. "Sammy, hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." The pain had disappeared after only a moment, leaving only confusion in its wake. Sam straightened, shrugging out of Dean's grasp, and made for the bathroom, splashing water on his face and downing a couple of pills to fight the lingering headache.

"Should I have checked for concussion?" Dean asked from the doorway. "Because you're showing a lot of signs."

"I didn't hit my head," Sam said. "I'm fine. Really." He faced his brother, brushing hair out of his eyes. "Let's go eat."

The diner Dean had suggested was small but crowded—they snagged the last booth and sat amidst the sounds of chatter and clinking dishes. A bar ran along the wall to their left, also choked with people drinking and talking and eating.

Dean was in his element, and Sam saw him relax in the crowded atmosphere, completely at ease. Sam wouldn't mind a place like this, usually—especially if he was with his brother—but his headache wasn't going away, and he still having trouble keeping his thoughts in straight lines.

What was happening to him?

Dean was never oblivious to Sam's discomfort, however, and eyed his brother with concern. "Headache?"

"Yeah," Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers for a couple seconds. He lowered his hand as the waitress came by, and ordered a salad, earning him, predictably, a roll of his brother's eyes.

"Shut up, I'm no that hungry," Sam said, raising his water glass to his lips and taking a long drink.

"Whatever." Dean folded his arms. "So what do you think about this Michael Jones guy?"

Sam blinked. "Who?"

Dean frowned. "The guy who tried to commit suicide. The _case_." He leaned forward slightly. "Sam, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, no, sorry, I just…forgot. Uh, what do you mean, what do I think of him?"

"Well, you think he'd have any reason to kill himself?"

_Kill himself_? "What?"

Dean's frown deepened. "Sammy, what's going on with you? Are you just sleep-deprived or is this something I should be worried about?"

Sam shook his head. "I told you, I'm fine. Head just hurts a little."

Dean wasn't buying it. "Sam—"

"No, Dean, come on. You've got too much other shit to worry about, forget about me right now."

"Sam, you can't tell me not to worry about you." Dean's eyebrows pulled together in a look of disapproval. "Is this about…you know…the deal I made?"

"Dean, come on…" Sam said in exasperation.

"Look, I want to talk about it about as much as you do, but if you're not able to focus on the case because you're worrying about me or something stupid like that…"

"That's not it, Dean."

Dean exhaled and ran his fingers through his hair. "I dunno, Sam—it's just that you always seem to blame yourself for this kind of thing, even when it's not your fault. So if that's what you're thinking—"

"It's not. Really."

"Well, good." Dean scratched the back of his neck. "Just wanted to make sure you know it isn't on you. At all."

"I know."

Dean leaned back on his seat, gazing absently out across the restaurant. "It's just after Jess—I know you blamed yourself for what happened to her for a while."

Sam was silent. Dean's eyes slid back to his brother and he was surprised to see a look of confusion on Sam's face.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam said slowly, a frown pulling her eyebrows together. "Who's Jess?"


	3. Chapter 3

** Long chapter this time, and it should be getting a little more interesting now. Thanks to every one of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed. You all make me so happy!**

** Hope it's all right. The rest is written but I'm still changing things, and if you have any suggestions at all let me know and I'd really appreciate it. All feedback is welcome. Enjoy!**

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"Bobby, hey," Dean said as his friend answered the phone, closing the door to stand outside the motel room. His brother was inside showering. "Listen, we've got a problem."

"What's going on?" Bobby said, his familiar, gruff voice a relief to Dean. "Is the hunt going okay?"

"Well, we kind of hit a dead end, but that's not the point. It…it's Sam."

Bobby was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again his tone had lost its relaxed tone from a moment before. "What happened?"

Dean outlined the case, and then explained the attack the ghost had made on Sam. He told Bobby about how Sam had been acting strange and forgetful in the hours after the assault—the headache, the dizziness, the confusion.

"And he couldn't…he didn't know who Jess was, Bobby. I kept trying to get him to remember, but he has no idea who she was. I don't know if he's just trying to screw with me or what, but it's freaking me out."

Once again Bobby was quiet for several moments. He cleared his throat. "I don't think Sam would fake something like that. Are you sure he didn't hit his head?"

"I checked for signs of concussion and trauma, but I didn't find anything. Bobby, what did that ghost do to my brother?"

"Well, I dunno for sure, Dean, but…I might have a theory."

"What? What is it?"

Bobby sighed. "It might be a type of spirit that can cause…changes in the mind."

"Changes? Wait, you mean like Ellicot, who amplified anger?"

"Exactly. Think about the victims you've talked to. One of them killed her husband in an unprecedented fit of rage, the second guy couldn't control the urge to kill himself, then the moment he did the deed he went back to normal."

"Right, just like the first woman. So…you think it's like an infection that slowly causes changes in your mind? The first woman, it was insanity, the second guy, suicidal thoughts, and then…oh god, Sammy."

"If I had to guess…"

"Memory loss." Dean's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, shit. Bobby, how do I stop it?"

"You get rid of the ghost before it takes him over completely. Salt and burn the bones."

Dean swallowed. "And if the infection takes him over…what happens then?"

"I don't know, Dean. But if the first two people were any indication…"

Dean scrubbed one hand over his face, struggling to stay calm. "What do I do?"

"Keep him remembering," Bobby said, voice solemn. "Make sure he doesn't let go and lose it more quickly."

"All right. Thanks Bobby."

"Sure thing, kid. Let me know if you need anything."

"Right." Dean closed and pocketed his phone, then took a moment to gather himself before reentering the motel room. He had to keep his game face on, so he could fix what was happening to Sam, because damn it, he wasn't going to let his brother lose his memory.

Sam exited the bathroom soon after Dean came back into the room, and Dean quickly wiped the worry and despair from his expression, smiling at his little brother. "Hey," he said. "How you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, running his fingers through his damp hair. He read the anxiety in Dean's eyes and cast him a reassuring smile. "I'm okay, Dean, really. What did Bobby say?"

Dean explained Bobby's theory. It was difficult to get through, to see the look of fear that flitted across Sam's face. "I think he's right," Dean said finally. He and Sam sat across from each other on the two beds, knees almost touching. "So I'm not sure how much time…well, anyway, I'm sorry, Sam. I didn't mean for this to happen."

"I know you didn't." Sam shook his head, his expression now carefully calm. "It isn't your fault." It looked like he was going to say something else, but instead he just swallowed and bowed his head, like he was trying to hide his face.

"Hey," Dean said. "Don't worry, Sam. We'll figure this out. You're not going to lose your memory. I'll fix it, I promise."

Sam raised his eyes and nodded, regarding Dean with the absolute trust of a little brother relying so heavily on the older. Normally this would send a feeling of warmth through Dean, knowing that Sam still needed him, that he still had such firm belief in him—he relied more than he'd like to admit on that knowledge alone. But now he felt a pang in his chest at Sam's expression. Because if he couldn't put a stop to this…Sam might never look at him like that again.

Sam might completely forget who he was.

Figuring Sam would have trouble keeping his head straight, Dean set out to do some research and figure out who this girl was. Sam fell asleep sometime later, but Dean stayed awake, having no desire to sleep while Sam was in this predicament.

He ended up dozing off at some point, however, with little to go on, frustrated with what this hunt had turned into. He passed out with his head in his arms and woke up with his neck aching to the sound of moaning from the other side of the room.

"Sammy?" he mumbled.

He glanced at the clock. It was still early, half past seven. Looking over to the bed, he saw his brother was still asleep, but Sam's face was creased with what was undeniably pain.

In a flash Dean had crossed the room to the bed and had his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam? Hey, Sam, wake up."

The lines of agony only deepened on Sam's face and a whimper escaped his lips. Alarmed now, Dean shook his brother more roughly. "Sammy. Wake up, man."

Sam's eyes flew open and he gasped, breathing heavily. "Dean," he panted. "I—I was—shit—"

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, removing his hand as Sam sat up, pawing at his forehead. "Nightmare?"

"Yeah. Kind of. I was…dreaming about that wendigo we hunted…with dad. Ten years ago. Remember that?"

Oh yeah, Dean remembered. That was the first hunt where dad had let them be separated—in a sense. Dean and Sam had stuck together, but they'd been away from their father, who in past hunts had insisted on keeping Sam close to him. Sam, nearly fifteen, was aching for more independence, and his father had finally relented.

It had not turned out well.

Dean sat down at the edge of Sam's bed. _Keep him remembering_, Bobby had said. This was not a particularly fond memory, but if it would help Sam, Dean would indulge it.

"Yeah, I remember," Dean muttered. He laughed mirthlessly "That was one of the worst hunts of my life."

"Why?" Sam said.

Dean shot him a look that clearly said, _why do you think?_ "Because I was being an idiot and almost got you killed, that's why."

"But you didn't. You saved me and almost got killed yourself in the process."

"Like I said, worst hunt ever."

Sam chuckled. "I guess I was the one who killed it though, wasn't I? With the flare gun. My first real kill."

Yet another reason it was one of the worst hunts Dean had ever experienced. Seeing Sam's first honest-to-god, on-a-hunt kill, had been indescribably painful to watch. The look in Sam's eyes as he made a desperate lunge for the flare-gun, as he pointed it with deadly accuracy, pulling the trigger…

His eyes had been cold and lethal and determined and focused—it was the look Dean had seen in John's eyes thousands of time, the look that was not _my little brother_, but rather _soldier, hunter_…_killer_. It was an expression Dean would see in the mirror many times, but not one he wanted to see in the gentle face of his baby brother.

It had hurt to acknowledge that Sammy was more grown up than Dean had wanted to admit, that he was capable of killing and not thinking twice about it, and he was reminded once again of the innocence that had been taken from Sam so long ago.

And then the moment the wendigo was dead, Sam had looked toward Dean, bleeding and panting on the forest floor nearby, and had crawled over to him, his expression completely changed—back was the need and fear for Dean, for him to be all right and solid and _there_.

_Dean. Dean! Are you okay? _

_Yeah…yeah I'm fine, Sammy. _A weak grin. _Good job, little brother. You took that son of a bitch out without batting an eye. _

_Yeah…I guess I did. Listen, I'll get dad. You'll be fine. Just stay awake, okay? _

_No way I'm passing out on you, Sammy. Gotta protect my baby brother, don't I? _

A roll of Sam's eyes. _It's _Sam. _Besides, I obviously I don't need protecting, do I?_

Which had almost been the most difficult thing to accept—that Sam was strong and capable and nearly grown up now. He didn't really need to be protected, as he had just displayed so well.

John had arrived, cleaned the deep cuts on Dean's chest, and all had been well, but Sammy had never been quite the same in Dean's eyes. It had been frightening, watching his brother kill like that. And yet…

"I was proud of you," Dean said. "I don't think I ever…told you that. But you really saved by ass back then. All by yourself. I was impressed."

"Yeah, well I've saved your ass plenty of times recently, too," Sam said with a wry smile. "That wendigo…I'll be honest, it scared the hell out of me to try and kill it. But it scared me more to watch you die."

He let this proclamation hang in the air for a moment, and the two brothers were silent, recalling the time when Sam's childhood had been snatched from him in favor of this, ghosts and demons and monsters and…

"You didn't hesitate then, did you?" Dean said. "You didn't think about it when you killed it."

"When I killed what?"

Dean looked up quickly to meet his brother's gaze and was about to say, _the wendigo_, but he saw the blank look in Sam's eyes, the complete lack of recognition, and realized that Sam had already forgotten. So he closed his mouth and shook his head once. "Nothing," he muttered, standing up. "Uh…let's go get some breakfast."

They found a small place about half a mile away and settled in to eat and so Dean could tell Sam the vague theories he'd come up with.

"It's flimsy," he said, "but I think the girl you saw might be Michael Jones's niece. I was looking at his myspace page online—"

"He has a _myspace_ _page_?"

"Don't change the subject. It seems like it hasn't been used in years but the point is, there was a photo of this girl online who looked kind of like the ghost who attacked you. And there was a caption under it that said _our beautiful niece Ashley_, or something like that. The only difference was…well, this girl didn't have any hair."

"Cancer victim?"

"Maybe. That would explain how she died."

The waitress arrived with a short stack for Dean and eggs and toast for Sam. Surprised at how hungry he was, Sam tucked into his food immediately, as Dean continued on about grilling Michael Jones to find out who this girl was.

Sam agreed it was a good place as any to look, and was about to say so when the pain returned. His head whirled and the room spun and he groaned, lowering his head into his hands, eyes shut tight. He heard his brother saying his name but it faded out as the dizziness and agony overtook him.

He reached out, however, and grasped his brother's arm, needing something to anchor him as the pain faded and clarity returned. More slowly this time—the episodes of pain were getting longer.

Sam realized as he came back to reality that he was clutching his brother's wrist to the point of cutting off his circulation. He loosened his grip but didn't let go, and Dean didn't seem to notice, because his eyes were fixed on his brother's face.

"Sam?"

Sam breathed deeply and nodded. "I'm fine. I'm okay."

He clearly was not. Dean felt a twist in his gut as Sam pulled away, his protective instincts kicking in, telling him to keep Sam close. Seeing the fear and residual pain on Sam's face he knew he needed to do something to keep him grounded. Keep him talking. Keep him remembering.

"Hey," he said. "You, uh…you remember that time on your birthday when Dad brought us to Bobby's?"

Sam gazed at him blankly and said, "Who's Bobby?"

Dean tried not to show the pain in his chest that twisted at those words, merely swallowing hard and continuing, "Well, we…that was one of the only times we ever tossed around a Frisbee like normal kids."

"That was the day I broke my ankle," Sam said, eyes widening as he remembered.

"Yeah," Dean said with a grin. "I left you alone for five freaking minutes and you fell out of a damn tree."

"I was trying to get the Frisbee out of the tree because _you_ are a terrible throw."

"It was the wind."

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Shut up." Dean leaned back in his chair, thinking back to the moment of panic when he'd heard Sam scream in pain, when he'd found him sprawled on the ground, ankle twisted all wrong, pain etched in every line on his brother's face.

"I had to carry your ass back to Bobby's," Dean said. "You scared the shit out of me that day, man."

Sam laughed, though the laughter was strained, and he was still massaging his skull. "Not the best birthday ever, huh?"

"I dunno. We had some pretty good cake the next day."

"You don't even like cake."

Dean shrugged. Sam laughed again.

"It did remind me of the first time you got injured on a hunt, though," Dean said. "When you were ten. Ghost got you, remember? You had to go to the hospital." He hadn't been there on the hunt, but he remembered hurtling into the waiting room of the hospital to face John, furious and panicked. He remembered getting up in his father's face, yelling at him for not keeping Sammy safe, for bringing him instead of Dean, but really he was just angry at himself, for letting Sam get hurt, for not being there to protect him.

Later he'd stood at Sam's bed and just watched him breathe, tears pricking his eyes, reminding himself over and over that _he's okay, he's okay, he's okay._

And he remembered saying to Sam, once he'd woken up—_Don't go without me again, all right? Don't do that to me again. _

"You remember what I said?" Dean asked now, looking up at his brother. "In the hospital?"

Sam hesitated and then shook his head slowly. "No, I…I don't remember, Dean. Sorry. I was ten?"

Dean felt another sharp pang in his chest but shook it off. "Never mind. Forget it."

Sam's face twisted in apology. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"No, it's fine, Sam. Don't worry about it." Dean cut into his pancakes, not wanting to talk about the past anymore and then see the vacancy in Sam's eyes. He didn't like talking about the past in the first place—it brought back painful memories of John, of hunts gone wrong, of the times when he'd watched Sam's childhood being stolen from him. But now talking about those memories was even less appealing.

They were quiet after breakfast, as they headed to the hospital to talk to Michael Jones about the girl who they thought might be his niece.

"Do you know this girl?" Dean asked, holding up the photo of her.

Michael looked at the picture for a long moment and then nodded slowly. "Yes…she was my niece. She died several years ago. Brain tumor. Why is she important?"

"She isn't," Dean said. "Not at the moment, anyway. But, uh, can you tell us where her family lives?"

Fortunately, he could. Unfortunately, the address he gave them existed several hours away by car.

"We'd better pack up and go right away," Dean said as they left the hospital. "The sooner we find out where she's buried the sooner this can end." Sam didn't reply as Dean jogged down the stairs. "You want to get some lunch or something first?" No answer. "Sam?"

He turned and saw Sam still halfway down the stairs, clutching the railing with one hand and his head with the other. He was doubled over, face clenched in anguish. "Aw, man, Sammy," Dean muttered, heading back up the steps. These episodes of pain were getting worse, and more frequent. They had to take care of this, and fast.

Sam panted as the pain faded and opened his eyes, looking blearily at Dean. He exhaled. "God…I hate this…"

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I'm—" Sam swallowed hard and a look of panic crossed his face. "I…I can't remember…" He raised his eyes full of fear to Dean. "Dean, I can't remember dad's name. I can't remember what he looks like. I—" He blinked. "He's alive, isn't he? Where is he?"

"Sam, calm down," Dean said, holding out his hands in an effort to placate his brother, though internally he was just as frightened. "You know this, Sam. John Winchester. Dark hair, beard, died to save my life after a car crash. You remember that? The car crash?"

Sam nodded, struggling to pull out those memories. It has been dark, he had been driving, and then the semi truck had come out of nowhere…he'd come to in the middle of a field, the impala a smoking wreck, his dad and his brother unconscious…

_Dad_…_dad? _

No answer. Sam had begun to panic.

_Dean_…_DEAN!_

Dean could not be dead. Sam needed him to be alive, for him to fix this, for him to be all right so everything else could be all right. John had been gone for months, he'd left them alone, but…he could not lose Dean.

Sam blinked, and suddenly the memory was gone. He looked up at his brother, a new wave of desperation overtaking him as he fought to dredge these memories back up. "No. I don't remember."

"Okay. Okay. Um…" Dean tried to stay calm. "Do you remember what our dad told me right before he died? What he told me about you?"

"He said…" Sam closed his eyes. "He told you that you had to save me, and if you couldn't…" He opened his eyes and blinked.

"If I couldn't…?" Dean prodded.

Sam looked at Dean, the panic gone from his face, replaced by a blank, unknowing expression. "What?"

It was gone. Dean tried not to let his disappointment show, but it was quickly replaced by fear as Sam continued to look at him with a blank expression. "Sammy?" he said, trying not to let his voice shake. "You know who I am, right?"

_Oh, god_, Dean thought as Sam's eyebrows pulled together._ No, no, he's already forgotten who I am. He can't have forgotten who I am. Not yet. _

"Yeah, of course I do, Dean," Sam said, frowning, and the wave of relief he felt almost made Dean's knees buckle.

"Right," he said. "Yeah. Okay. C'mon, let's get back to the motel and pack up, okay?" He slipped an arm behind Sam's back and helped him towards the impala, wondering how much longer this would last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks again to everyone who's been reading this, and a special thanks to those who have followed and favorited. The next chapter will probably be the last one, but you'll just have to see. As always, reviews would be wonderful, and any suggestions are welcome. Enjoy!**

Sam and Dean spent the first couple hours in the road in silence, then stopped in the evening to get gas and something for dinner.

Dean sat in the impala as Sam went inside the gas station to get food, and felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen and then put it to his ear. "Hey, Bobby."

"How is he?"

Dean glanced at the window of the station, where Sam was looking at the various shelves of goods. His forehead was creased and he wasn't moving, like he was thinking hard about something. As Dean watched he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, then shook his head and looked back up with a face entirely devoid of emotion, like he'd completely forgotten what he'd just been thinking about.

Dean sighed and rested his head back on the seat. "It's like he's struggling to remember things, but just as he starts to get a grasp on them…" He clenched his teeth. "He's forgetting everything and I can't stop it. He can't remember our dad's name, or what he looks like…he can't remember you, Bobby."

There was a moment of silence on the line. Dean heard Bobby clear his throat, then say quietly, "But he can still remember who you are, right?"

"Yeah." Dean exhaled. "But who knows how much longer that'll last. Bobby…will this even end once the bones are burned?"

"I don't know, kid. I hope so."

"Maybe it would be best," Dean said, a tremor in his voice now that he couldn't hide. "If he just forgot me now, then in a few months when I…when I leave…"

"You stop that talk right now, boy," Bobby said sharply, and Dean fell silent. "Don't be an idiot. Even if Sam loses all the rest of his memories, I don't think there's any way he could forget you. That kid _needs_ you, Dean. So you stick with him and keep him remembering until his last memory is dust or I'll kick your ass, you get that?"

"Yeah," Dean said, running his hand through his hair. "Okay."

"Keep him talking, Dean, you hear me? Don't let him forget. Any memories you can dredge up will help."

"Right," Dean said. "Thanks Bobby. I'll see you later." He shut off his phone just as Sam opened the passenger side door, tossing Dean a bag of chips and a coke.

"Thanks," Dean said. They sat in the impala for a few minutes, picking at their food without any real enthusiasm, and when Dean couldn't stand staying still for any longer he twisted the keys in the ignition and started up the car once again.

The sun sank toward the horizon as they sped on, and Dean wracked his brain for something to say to break the silence. He had to keep Sam thinking about the past, so he didn't let go of all those memories.

"I know you're worried about me," Sam said finally, surprising Dean. "But I'm okay. I promise. We'll figure this out soon and things will be back to normal."

"Hopefully," Dean muttered. "We don't know for sure, Sam."

"Well, it's the best we've got right now. So we've got to keep looking ahead—that's what we always do, right?"

"Yeah, except looking ahead isn't the problem right now," Dean said. "You're forgetting your _past_, Sam. You're losing your memory."

"You think I don't know that?" Sam exhaled, clenching one hand into a fist. "I don't want to lose it completely, Dean, you know that. As shitty as some of the memories I have are…they made me who I am. I'm not about to let that go."

Dean swallowed. Sam was right. He'd considered his past to be a big pile of crap, but…all the two of them had been through, it had shaped them. All those hours in the impala, in the crappy motel rooms, the hunts—it all meant something to both of them. Two brothers, an impala, and the road.

In the end, that was all they really needed.

Dean cleared his throat. "Azazel," he said. He needed to keep working at bringing back these memories "You remember him, don't you?"

The name dredged up several fractured images in Sam's mind—an abandoned town, a graveyard, a pair of yellow eyes…but each was gone as soon as it flashed through his mind. He frowned.

"He reminds me of something, but…" Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I don't remember."

Dean cast his brother a disbelieving look. "You don't remember the demon that killed our mother?"

"Our mother's dead?" Sam said hoarsely.

"Died when you were a baby," Dean said. "Come on, Sam. Stay with me, you know this."

"Azazel was a…demon?"

"A demon our father spent his entire life searching for. You don't remember the hospital where dad made a deal with him for my life? The graveyard, where the colt made a hole in his chest? Cold Oak, where, because of him, you _died in my arms_?"

Sam swallowed. "I what?"

"Sam, you don't remember any of this?"

"No…I…"

"Sam, that demon's game got you murdered. I brought you back—" He paused. If he couldn't remember dying, maybe he didn't remember the deal Dean had made, or the time limit it had put him under. Maybe it was best if he stayed that way…for now. So he fell silent, and after a moment tried again.

The moment he started to speak again, however, Sam made a strangled sound and pressed both hands against his head, as though struggling to hold it together, and Dean's eyes widened. He reached across the seat to grip his brother's shoulder.

"Damn it," he said. "Hey—Sammy, look at me."

"It's _Sam_." His eyes were still closed, one hand pressed to his forehead, but his words were said with perfect clarity. Out of everything Sam had said over the past couple of things, all the important things he'd forgotten, these two words pained Dean the most.

Sam hadn't corrected him on the nickname in years. It had become—to both of them, it seemed—a term of endearment, solidifying the fact that to Dean, Sam was and would always be Sammy. Only months after he had come back from Stanford, insisting to be called Sam, he'd gone to insisting that Dean was the only one who could use the nickname. It had been comforting to Dean—that as grown up and changed as Sam was…he was still Dean's little brother.

Dean didn't want to lose that, too.

Dean tightened his hands on the steering week as Sam raised his head, oblivious to the pain twisting itself through Dean's gut. "Sorry. I'm okay. How much further?"

"Another few miles. Hang in there, Sam."

"I'm okay."

"No, you're not. Don't lie to me, Sam, your mind is going by the second and you could pass out at any time and leave me here before I—" he broke off and steadied himself against the rise of emotions that seemed determined to overwhelm him.

"Dean?" Sam said quietly.

"Sam, you—you've gotta hold on, all right? Because I'm not going to be here much longer, and I can't lose you yet."

"What do you—"

"I'll be gone soon," Dean said, voice gruff, "and leave you here, and eventually you're gonna move on, find something else, start a family maybe—and you're going to forget me." He took a deep breath. "I've accepted that. But I don't want it to happen yet. Not yet. You hear me, Sammy?"

Sam didn't correct him this time. Instead he was silent for a long moment, then said softly, voice concealing all kinds of emotion, "Okay. Okay, Dean."

Dean gave up on prodding Sam's memory banks, having dealt with enough for one evening, so the two of them were silent again for the rest of the ride.

SSS

They crashed in a motel for the night, then first thing in the morning went to visit the girl's family. Dean was getting desperate, because the vacant look on Sam's face had become nearly a permanent thing, and the bouts of pain were getting more and more frequent. He no longer knew what to do to help, except finish the hunt. And if that didn't work, well…he'd figure out something else.

He would not let his brother lose his memory.

Sam knocked on the door to the family's house, and it was answered by a thin young blonde woman, her hair pulled up into a loose bun. Her eyes flicked between Sam and Dean once before she asked, "Can I help you two?"

"We were hoping to talk to you about your daughter," Dean said before Sam could speak. "It will be brief, we promise. But it's very important."

"My…daughter?" The woman frowned. "I only have a son. My daughter died six years ago."

"We just need to know a few things," Sam said. "Please. It will only take a minute."

The woman allowed them into her home with reluctance, and the two of them sat on the couch across from where she sat on a cushy arm chair. She twisted and untwisted her hands in her lap again and again and spoke into them as she answered their questions. "Ellen was so young," she said. "Only eight when she…" She sighed. "It was cancer, a brain tumor. It infected her so slowly, that we didn't notice in time. She had surgery and chemo, but it made no difference. The tumor took her over and it…changed her. She became angry…forgetful…it was terrible. And we could only watched while it happened."

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. That was exactly what had happened to the two victims, as well as what was happening to Sam. "So…she's buried in this town then?" Dean said.

The woman looked up quickly. "Oh—no. She was cremated."

Dean's heart sank and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. This had been their last hope. He bit back a stream of curses and forced himself to focus, to find something else, anything else—"Did you keep something of hers to remember her by?" He didn't care that his voice sounded desperate. "A lock of hair or something?"

The woman frowned. "Um…no. Nothing. Why?"

"Never mind." Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting back a complete breakdown. "We should go. Thank you for your help." He pulled Sam to his feet and they made their way back to the impala.

"Dean," Sam said. "It's okay. Really."

"It's not okay!" Dean snapped, whirling around to face his brother. "I've got nothing, Sam, _nothing!_ That was our last chance and it got us _nothing_. So no, Sam, I'm sorry, but we're out of options."

"But you can't just—"

"No, I can't!" Dean raked his fingers through his hair, not wanting to look at his brother's gentle eyes and see the sympathy and resignation there. "But I have to." He swallowed, his voice hitching. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"It's not your fault."

Dean forced himself to meet Sam's eyes but couldn't stand what he saw there. He looked away quickly and opened the door to the car. "Come on, let's go."

SSS

Dean left Sam at the motel and went to get food, but the moment he pulled into the parking lot of the fast food place he dug out his phone, stepping out of the car, and dialed Bobby's number.

"I'm out of options here, Bobby," Dean said, pacing beside the car in agitation. "Sammy's almost gone, and the ghost—she was cremated. I've got nothing. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"I…I don't know." Dean felt a clenching feeling in his chest at the resignation in Bobby's voice. He'd been Dean's last hope, and if he had nothing…"Maybe this is one battle you can't win, kid."

"I can't lose him, Bobby," Dean said hoarsely, once again not caring how desperate he sounded. "I can't."

"I know, Dean." Bobby sighed. "Listen, I'll make some calls, okay? If I find anything I'll let you know right away. I'm afraid it's the best I can do."

"Yeah. Okay." Dean tightened his hand over the phone. "Bye." He tucked the phone into his pocket and pressed one hand over his eyes, breathing deeply to try and keep it together.

He took a moment to gather himself, then headed toward the restaurant, thoughts and options and fears a confusing whirl in his head.

At the same time, Sam sat on the motel bed, his mind a similar whirl of confusing thoughts and pieces of memories. He tried to put them together, to make some sense of it, but there was no way, especially now with Dean gone.

Sam got up to shower, but he was only halfway to the bathroom when a horrible pain, far worse than anything he'd experienced before, took him by surprise.

The pain scorched its way fiercely through his mind, raw and unending and making Sam feel like his head was going to split into a million pieces. It burned away the last tendrils of memory that Sam had been trying with desperation to cling to, and soon he was left with nothing, just endless pain.

Pain that suddenly vanished, replaced by a feeling of emptiness. Solidity vanished underneath him and Sam felt himself falling, felt himself hit the floor, and then darkness took him.


	5. Chapter 5

**I lied, there will be one more short chapter after this one. As always, reviews are love!**

Sam's mind was an endless void of darkness, of nothing, of empty blackness. He couldn't see and he couldn't remember, not anything, not even pieces—no names or faces or...

Voices.

"Sam, open your eyes. Come on, dude, don't give up on me yet. Sam, please."

Sam knew that voice. It was the voice of comfort, of strength, of protection...of home.

Dean.

Sam cracked his eyes open, his vision blurry and unfocused. Dean, seeing no recognition in that gaze, found himself in an internal struggle between relief at seeing his brother awake and pain at seeing his brother not know who he was.

"Sam?" Dean swallowed. "Can you hear me?"

Sam's eyes widened and suddenly he lashed out, swinging his fist towards Dean's face. "Get the hell away from me!"

Dean had partially expected this, however, and ducked out of the way, grabbing Sam's arms as he made another swipe at Dean's jaw, nearly clipping him. "Sam! Sam, calm down, you know me! _Sammy_!"

Sam blinked and his vision cleared, focusing on his brother's face. "Dean?" His voice was small, as though he was six again, and elicited a painful tightening in Dean's throat.

Dean's hand tightened reflexively over Sam's wrist. "Yeah, who else would it be?"

Sam didn't answer for a minute. Everything felt so heavy. "Dean," he said. "I can't...remember anything."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...it's all...black. I can't..." He swallowed and twisted his hand, grabbing onto the sleeve of Dean's jacket. "My memory. It's gone."

Dean stared at him wordlessly. "But you still..." He stopped, his jaw working. He still remembered Dean. Which meant there was still time.

Dean stood up. That girl's family had been his only hope, and they still were now. They had to be hiding something. That was the only option he had left.

He drove to their house, leaving Sam on the bed of the motel—hating himself for it—and made it there in half the time he had before. He pounded on the door, prepared pound the answer out of them if he had to, but the tired woman who answered the door broke his resolve. The pain in her eyes, the shadows beneath them, the drawn look to her face...and the boy who rounded the corner, clinging to his mother's waist.

Dean swallowed hard. "Please," he said. "I need your help."

SSS

"I need to know the truth about your daughter." Dean sat across from the woman in the dining room. "I know there's something you're not telling me, and..." Dean exhaled. "It's my brother. Finding out what happened to your daughter could save his life."

"I...I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

If there was one thing Dean was good at, it was spotting a lie. As she spoke the woman didn't meet his eyes, she stuttered, and she hesitated. Dean leaned forward slightly. "I know you've seen her," Dean said. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and Dean knew he'd hit the truth. "Please, tell me what happened to her."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she began to speak. "We didn't have the money," she whispered. "When we found out about the tumor, we could have done chemo therapy, we could have done surgery, but...it was all too expensive, and we'd found out about the tumor so late...the chance that she would survive, in any case, was so low..." She wiped tears from her cheeks.

"So you let it just..."

"Yes." She shook her head. "My husband and I agreed. And we watched our little girl die."

Dean nodded. That was the truth he'd been looking for. But there was one more thing... "Where did you bury her?"

SSS

Dean managed to find the graveyard—and the girl's grave—before too long. The real torture began in digging up the coffin, which was taking far too long.

He wasn't surprised that this woman's daughter was the ghost they'd been looking for. The girl uncovered, Dean doused her with salt and accelerant, lit a match, and with a wry smile, set the girl's bones aflame.

Sam, meanwhile, was trapped in a kind of limbo, partially aware and partially not, and he felt the last shred of consciousness he had slipping away. He was wandering, out in the dim streets, searching for something, anything to hold onto, feeling like he was floating rather than walking, nothing feeling solid.

He felt so alone. Everything was so dark. He felt along the brick wall of a nearby building and paused in the middle of what seemed to be an alleyway, his breathing abnormally loud in his ears.

As he stood there, his vision blurring and tilting, struggling not to keel over, a man appeared before him with dirty blond hair and broad shoulders, looking angry. His figure was indistinct, hazy, and Sam had trouble focusing on it, but Sam was sure he was there, because he heard the man speak.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

Sam blinked. He didn't know this person. "What?" he said, and if anything the man before him just looked more infuriated.

"You're giving up, Sam! How many times did I tell you not to give up? You're just letting yourself slip away. You gotta hold on, man."

Sam swallowed. He swayed on his feet. "I can't."

"Yes you can. And if you're too tired, if you think you're not strong enough, well tough. That's bullshit. You're strong enough to hold on, Sam."

"But what if I'm not?"

The man's forehead creased and he took a step towards Sam. "So what, you're just going to let yourself forget about everything we've been through?"

"I don't know you."

"Right, sure you don't. You don't know the guy who raised you, who protected you, who loved you practically since the day you were born. Sam, I can't get you out of this alone. You've got to remember who I am, and you've got to remember who you are."

"I don't know…I don't…" Sam pressed his hand against the cold brick wall. His vision seemed to stop tilting. "I'm a hunter."

"That's right," Dean said. "But you're more than that. You're my _brother_, Sammy. You'll always be my little brother. And I need you to remember that."

"But you're going to leave," Sam said, voice choked with emotion, not really knowing what he was saying. "You may have been there my whole life but—you'll be gone, and I'll be alone. So what if I let go now? I'm going to lose everything soon anyway!"

"And you think I'm willing to lose you? Like this?" The man raised his eyebrows. "If you won't hold on for yourself, do it for me. I didn't make that damn deal just to watch you give up. I don't care if I go to hell, Sammy, as long as you _live_. As long as you keep going, and have a life, and survive."

Sam blinked, stared hard at this unknown person, and slowly his vision began to sharpen, the man before him appearing with more clarity—the green eyes holding concern and certainty, the high cheekbones and the freckles adorning his nose—and suddenly a name rose into Sam's mind.

"Dean."

With that name came the rush of a thousand different memories—riding side-by-side in an old chevy '67, Dean teaching Sam how to shoot, how to kill, how to protect himself, hunting together, Dean defending his brother time after time against the evils of the world. Their lives. The Winchester brothers against the world.

Dean smiled, nodded, and Sam stumbled forward, tears of relief at his eyes. "Dean," he gasped again. "Dean, it's you, you're here."

"I'm here. I'm here, Sammy. I'll always be here."

Sam reached out for his brother, needing Dean as much as he had when he was young, needing him as a grounding force, as the one person who kept him safe, kept him alive.

But the moment Sam touched his brother, Dean was gone. Sam stopped, looked around, breathing fast, into the blackness that surrounded him like a chokehold. He swallowed, fear rising inside him in truth. "Dean!" He spun around in the dark alleyway, tears rising up and threatening to overflow. "_Dean!"_

Sam stumbled back against the wall behind him and slid down to sit on the cold ground, fisting his hands in his hair, gasping and shaking as he lost the last few pieces that kept him whole.


	6. Chapter 6

**Here we go, last chapter! Thanks again to every single person who read this story. First completed multi-chapter fic! Whooo!**

**Thanks especially to all those who reviewed, favorited and followed. I hope y'all enjoyed the story. Reviews are always more than welcome! **

Dean pushed open the door to their motel room and immediately looked toward the far bed, where Sam was no longer lying. Dean's eyes widened and he groaned, raking both hands through his hair. "Damn it, _damn _it!" He shouldn't have left his brother. Who knows where he'd gotten off to now.

Dean figured Sam couldn't have gotten far in his condition, so raced back out the door and began to comb the nearby streets for his brother. It was dark—there could be anything out there, and Sam was vulnerable. Dean continued to berate himself for being so thoughtless as every street yielded nothing.

His desperation growing, Dean pulled out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Sam's phone. It rang and then went to voicemail, and Dean hung up with a growl of frustration, not bothering to leave a message.

He hurried down past a bar and into the next alleyway, dialing Sam's number again. After the second ring he froze, looking around—he could have sworn he'd heard his brother's ringtone.

Hope rising in his chest, he hurried down the street, seeing a tall figure slumped against the wall on the ground.

"Sammy," Dean breathed in relief, pocketing his phone and hurrying to kneel at his side, pressing two fingers to Sam's neck. There was still a pulse, though it was weak and slow and did nothing to ease Dean's panic.

"Sam?" he said, pressing one hand to Sam's shoulder. He shook him gently. "Sammy?" He shook his brother more roughly, trying to stay calm. "Sam, wake up, come on, man. I burned those damn bones, you have to be all right." His hand tightened. "You _have _to be."

He pressed one hand to Sam's neck again, chest constricting when he felt that the pulse was even slower. "No, no, no, Sam. Come on. Come back to me. Please"

Sam did not move. Dean's hands fisted in his brother's shirt and his breaths came out more shallow. "S-Sam?"

His brother didn't answer. Dean gave an unintelligible noise of anguish, teeth clenched against rising tears. This could not be happening. Not now. Not again. He'd done everything he could, done so much to protect Sam, put everything, including his own soul, into protecting his brother, and yet…

This was how he would lose Sam? Before he would even fulfill his contract?

Dean lost the rest of his strength and leaned forward, resting his forehead against his brother's, breathing harshly through his teeth, hands tightening on Sam's shirt as he struggled to retain the control that was quickly slipping.

"God, Sam," he whispered, eyes shut tight. "Don't do this to me."

The moment he said these words, a shudder rippled through Sam's body and he gasped, his hand flying up to grasp Dean's wrist. Dean's eyes shot open the moment he felt Sam move and he caught his breath. "Sammy?"

"Dean—" Sam's eyes locked on Dean's and Dean felt an immense wave of relief—Sam still remembered him.

"Damn it, Sam," he breathed. "Don't scare me like that again."

"I remember," Sam said. "Everything. You burned the bones?"

Dean nodded. "You remember everything? Then, uh…what did I say, when…after the heart attack. When I checked myself out and came back to the motel room. What did I say about leaving the hospital?"

"You said…" A small smile made its way across Sam's face. "_I'm not going to die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot_."

At that Dean grinned, full and genuine and relieved, his one hand reaching up to grip the back of Sam's neck. His touch, warm and solid and _there,_ made Sam feel equal relief and was grateful when Dean didn't let go for several long moments, needing the familiar contact of his brother.

"Son of a bitch, Sam."

Sam managed to grin back, even though his eyes were still exhausted and his face pale. "And if I'm right, you then proceeded to nearly collapse as you came into the motel room, claiming to be just fine—"

"Yeah, you've got your memory back," Dean said, standing up. He gripped Sam's hand and helped him up as well. Sam's grin remained in place, but faltered slightly as he met Dean's eyes and remembered sitting across from Dean in that motel room, gazing at Dean's drawn, ashen features, feeling that unshakable fear claw its way through his stomach. Saying with certainty he didn't really feel—but that he needed to convey, for both of their sakes—_I'm not going to let you die, period_.

Sam had meant what he said, that he would do every single thing possible to save his brother, because Dean was the one thing he couldn't afford to lose. And Sam felt a surge of affection for his brother, because even after all that had happened to them, it was that bond, that tenacious hold both of them had on it, that had saved Sam's life.

"You know, I've never liked Tennessee." Dean said as they began back towards the street.

Sam chuckled tiredly, running his fingers through his long hair. "Yeah," he said. "Me neither."

SSS

Once again, both Sam and Dean were eager to get out of the town and back onto the road. Sam wanted to leave this town behind—this was one memory he wasn't keen on keeping close.

However, he couldn't forget the strange dream he'd had before waking up to Dean's desperate voice. Right before he'd come to her could swear he remembered seeing the figure of a girl with sad eyes who disappeared the moment he caught a glimpse of her.

He told this to Dean, who explained how this girl's family had abandoned her to die of cancer—their lack of money, how she probably would have died anyway, how she was already too far along when they found out about it.

"What else do you remember?" Dean asked, glancing over at his brother in the passenger seat.

"Um…" Sam scratched at the back of his neck. "Not a lot. Everything was dark, really dark…but I do remember one thing. You were there."

"What?"

"I mean, I saw you, while I was wandering around. I guess it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but you were there. You…talked to me."

"What did I, uh, say?"

Sam smiled at the skeptical tone of his brother's voice. "Hey, I don't know, I'd lost my entire memory. I was delirious. I needed something to ground me and the first thing my mind conjured up was you."

"So what did I _say?_"

"Uh…" Sam sighed. "You told me I was strong enough to hold on, you told me…you reminded me that I was your brother, and that…you weren't willing to lose me. So I held on."

Dead swallowed reflexively, not speaking for a minute in fear that his voice would choke up. "Wow," he said finally. "That's…that's something."

"Yeah. You're telling me."

SSS

Sam was asleep by the time Dean pulled over to get gas, and after filling the tank he figured he should give Bobby a call, to let him know that Sam was all right.

"Dean?" Bobby answered on the first ring, concern prominent in his voice, and Dean smiled to himself.

"Hey, yeah, Bobby, it's me."

"How's Sam?"

"He's fine," Dean said, and he could hear a breath of relief from the other end of the phone.

"Thank god," Bobby said. "Damn it, I'm old, kid. You can't keep making me fret like this. Be more careful!"

Dean chuckled, marveling at how much Bobby sounded like a worried mother. "Yeah, no kidding. Got the ghost just in time, though. Sam has his memory back, so he should be all right."

"Did he lose it all?" Bobby asked, quietly. "In the end…did he forget everything?"

"No," Dean said. "Not everything. He…well, he never forgot me, not completely."

"I didn't expect him to," Bobby said matter-of-factly, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "Out of all the memories that boy has, all the people he's ever met, you were the one thing his mind decided to keep an iron grip on. Sure as hell tells you something, doesn't it?"

Dean fought back a grin, glancing at his little brother, asleep in the passenger's seat, struck suddenly by a feeling of _rightness_. Screw the future, screw the past, screw death and demons and everything else—Sammy was safe. They were both exactly where they were supposed to be. Nothing else mattered, not at the moment.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I guess it does."

**End**


End file.
